


Wrapped in Cellophane

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He cannot ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrapped in Cellophane

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 8, 2010. 
> 
> I was going for Alfred's more introspective side versus what he shows, and it kind of just became a muddled mess, I think.

  
Arthur’s lips move south down his body, starting from the forehead and migrating. Alfred forgets to breathe, his mouth parting as Arthur’s lips slide over his. He too soon pulls away, abandons his mouth and ears, flees his lips and his eyes and his voice.   
  
Those eyes watch him for a moment before a mouth presses against his chin and drifts away, and all Alfred is left with is the silence and a blaring, curious ceiling above him. Alfred blinks to clear his vision, to keep it from swimming in and out of focus.   
  
_Do you love me?_ he wants to ask, but he cannot.   
  
He questions the fading light, he questions the closed blinds. He questions the way the ceiling curves above them, the way Arthur’s lips slide down over his body. Map his chest.   
  
He wants to ask.  
  
The sheets rustle a response beneath him, and Arthur stays silent. He never answers. Never him.   
  
Alfred knows he cannot ask—he never does.   
  
The rustles of the sheets crinkle into his mind, and he feels as if all the longing in his body is lodged into the center of his throat, sweeping away and whisking off his back. He clenches his eyes shut as Arthur’s mouth and fingers tell it like it is.   
  
“Ah,” Alfred breathes out when Arthur’s fingers brush over his hips in the way he likes.   
  
Arthur’s eyes probably flicker up at that, but Alfred’s gaze is on the ceiling, his eyebrows slanted, his expression guarded. If Arthur will not answer, then neither will he.   
  
He imagines: the arch of Arthur’s the spine, the pant of his breath as he whispers, again and again, _love you, I love you, you, you—_   
  
And Alfred imagines. Yes, he would respond. He would respond and whisper the words back, the ones that lodge in his throat for far too long. Alfred would say it back, and Arthur would be happy. Arthur would never get enough of it, of hearing Alfred say _I love you_. And Alfred knows that if Arthur ever said it, if he ever heard it, he would never grow tired of it. He’d never get used to the fact that Arthur would say those words and mean _him._ Him. The man he swore so long ago to hate, to never hold close again.  
  
Arthur’s fingers drag over his skin and Alfred shivers, his eyelashes fluttering as he opens his eyes again. He is surprised to see Arthur there, staring down at him, frowning.   
  
“Oh,” he says, blinking. And then he grins. “What? Tired already, old man?”  
  
Arthur’s brows furrow and he mutters, “Shut the fuck up.”   
  
Alfred grins, feels his smile ripple like crumbled paper—just as flimsy and easy to shatter. But he leaves it in place, because that is what he does best.   
  
He imagines: Arthur would be beside himself, whisper about how it was _impossible for you to mean me, sad lonely Arthur._ But Alfred would just laugh, and hold him close, and maybe even kiss him. He might even restrain himself from teasing Arthur. Because it was love and it was theirs and that was what was important, all that was important—that it was theirs.   
  
He imagines: _I love you._   
  
Arthur is still looking at him.   
  
Alfred breathes out, and Arthur dips in, kissing at his jaw, breathing into his hair. For just a brief moment, Alfred thinks that maybe Arthur is smiling. But the moment is fleeting. He likes the rare occasions when he thinks that maybe Arthur is happy with him, that maybe there is more to this moment, this entangling of limbs—more. All he wants is more.   
  
There are so many things he could say, would say. _I want you. I miss you. It’s sappy and stupid but I can’t help it—I will never stop._   
  
But thinking such thoughts always makes the sensations build in his gut. He curls his fingers into the sheets, to keep himself from biting his lip and just _asking_ , because he cannot stand to think of what the true answer will be. He is not ready for that rejection, for a confirmation that there is _nothing_ between them. He feels the hot, churning inside him, the history and the unspoken words—all of it racing through his limbs and coiling in his gut like a spring.   
  
When he saw Arthur in these moments, he feels like he isn’t the same anymore. As if he’d fallen asleep, and someone had disassembled him and left him. Or perhaps hurriedly put him back together and done it all wrong.   
  
Alfred shivers again.  
  
“Hey,” Arthur says, and Alfred blinks his eyes open to see that Arthur has pulled away again. He isn’t smiling. “Are you cold, my lad?”  
  
Alfred shakes his head, and wraps his heavy arms around Arthur’s shoulders, tugging him, his hands sinking into Arthur’s hair.   
  
The ceiling taunts him as Arthur shrugs and dips his head, kissing at Alfred’s neck. The sheets rustle all the unspoken words that Alfred feels lodged in the base of his throat, the base that Arthur’s lips pass over so smoothly, so peacefully.   
  
He cannot ask.


End file.
